


What Little Girls are Made Of

by scribblemyname



Series: Liquid [3]
Category: X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Past Relationship(s), Romantic Regrets, Two-Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-03
Updated: 2013-07-03
Packaged: 2017-12-17 14:04:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/868416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblemyname/pseuds/scribblemyname
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two-Shot. It's the aftertaste that'll kill you. Rogue/Remy/Bobby/John</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Spills

She never held much with crying. Shedding tears was what weak girls did when they found out their boyfriends cheated, they're fatally ill, they're never gonna marry, they broke up with the best thing they ever had sitting in front of them before it could be inside of them.

Don't cry over spilt milk. Strong and fiery was the way of the Southern belle.

Rogue would think about hot tea in the middle of the night when nightmares would wake her and tumble her down the stairs of the girls dorm and landing forlornly in an empty kitchen, the only one up. She would think about coffee, latte to be specific. Hot milk in scalding drink.

She ends up with milk.

Rogue always liked to wake on hot Mississippi nights and drink her tea, cold and sweet, to rock on the front porch swing with her Mama under her singing softly until she fell asleep once more. Never mind New York summers that feel like winters because there's no one to keep her warm.

She pours herself a glass.

It's the vaunted cure for insomnia and tears. It's something they never gave her, not with ice cold water or flaming mugs or chuckles and spices. She pretends she doesn't see dark eyes that burn and drown her, hear soft lies in Mystique's tongue, or smell that Cajun spice. Pretends not to remember flaming apples of lost innocence and fragile trust cracked and open, raw darkness.

Rogue sways to some forgotten melody sung by a Mama over a girl already too old for trust. These Southern ladies, they take what they're offered, smile, say thank you. They don't say yes; they don't say no.

She swings too wide and white hits the tile. There are no tears when she slowly stoops to clean it up.

Shattered glass, cold nights and hands, warm water, clean air.

And all she sees is liquid white staining her gloves like blood.


	2. Sheds

He never was much for crying. Shedding tears was what men did when there was nothing left and nowhere else to go, when you couldn't go on and the battle was done and the losses were down on the ground for keeps and for good. She would agree with her inner Logan when he reminded her that what flowed through her arteries wasn't water and what kept her heart beating was more than blood.

Rogue refuses to look into blood-colored eyes or the face made of ice when she fights. The Danger Room is her escape. Her faux enemies are nameless, faceless, don't whisper secrets over coffee or break her trust—her heart has been past breaking for far too long—with icy ponds, don't write her name in flames across the sheet of poetry like burnt sunsets, don't smell like anything but blood.

She doesn't cry when she sheds a little. Isn't strong and fiery the way of the Southern belle?

Her skin draws secrets, whispers of thoughts, dark and rich like poison into her own soul, nightmares and dreams, the phantasia of a person's mind. Is it any wonder the blood she sheds leaks memories and desires, things best left forgotten, like the way it feels to love and laugh and spill milk into coffee and hearts into hands and heat into another's burning eyes?

And this time, the blood that stains her gloves is the color of her heart.


End file.
